


Lab Rat

by orphan_account



Category: MCU, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Tony as creepy mentor, swapping inventions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-05-20 20:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19384180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Peter can't wait to show Mr. Stark his new invention. Mr. Stark has things to show Pete, too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While I realize that all Tony/Peter fic should be sweet and wonderful, this is just a little weird, for no reason. Just want I felt like writing.  
> Let me know what you think.

Peter’s toes wiggle in his shoes. They won’t be still. Sure, he’s got his earbuds in, but it’s not the music electrifying his nerves even though Weird Al's parody of this Childish Gambino track is pretty awesome. But when Peter’s legs start bouncing, it’s three times faster than the beat.

He checks his watch. Five minutes. That’s not too bad. After six months of radio silence, he can wait an extra five minutes. He chuckles to himself as a grey cat slinks across the street. Is that like half bad luck/half good luck? Now, he's chewing his nails.

One hour and six minutes ago, Peter was freshly showered and stepping into his pajama pants when a high-pitched tone pierced the silence and pricked the hairs on the back of his neck. Wincing and clasping his palms over his ears, he chased the source of the dreadful sound to the back of his closet. The spider in the center of his suit chest glowed in the darkness.

Hoping to shut up, Peter smacked it like he would a living pest. The suit spoke back, “Pretty good, huh?”

“Mr. Stark?”

“Tapped into your little ‘spideysenses’ there, didn't I?”

The sarcastic finger waggle was practically visible. Mr. Stark knows spideysenses are real, yet his tone of voice reduces Peter to a six year-old at a magic show: eager, pitiful awe.

“Tonight’s the night, kid.”

“What?” Peter blinked, staring at the still-shining spider.

“One hour. Be ready.”

End of transmission. Peter stepped out of his closet, into the middle of his bedroom, spinning first left and then right with his hands wide.

“It’s late. Who cares? Oh my God. This is happening.”

An hour to dress and pull everything together. Maybe he should also eat something, in case he was going to be awake a while, especially since he skipped dinner to tinker on his invention. Of course, that's pretty much all he does in his spare time?

In jeans, a t and a hoodie, he stuffed everything into the repurposed Pelican case Ned "borrowed" from his dad’s Beretta. It was a loan Mr. Leeds would probably not have made if he’d known, but sacrifices are necessary in the name of progress.

Peter froze. Should he be wearing his suit? It didn’t seem like a superhero emergency, but it would show gratitude. Or it would look like he was sticking his nose up Mr. Stark’s butt. A real suit, maybe? Or at least a button-down shirt, for the professional look?

He shook off the question. This meeting isn’t a fashion show. It's the future.

Peter stopped at Aunt May’s door. Before he even knocked, he resolved not to ask but to tell her that he was going out. If she made a fuss that it was after 10PM on a school night, he would simply ask her to list the billionaire genius scientists who are interested in his inventions.

If that didn’t work, he’d run for it.

But Aunt May was curled up on her side of the bed, her hair lifting lightly in the late April breeze. Rather than close the window, Peter tucked the blanket up over her shoulder. The TV, he left on. He’d created a methane generator in fifth grade, to offset the shameful waste of electricity from this habit of hers. That way, all the farts in the apartment power May's overnight TV habit.

She never said so, but the low hum must remind her of Uncle Ben’s snoring. Of all the things you never think you’ll miss.

Uncle Ben was the one person who believed in every single wacky concept, even back when Peter was a five year-old phenom destroying the toilet to make the world’s first long-distance toilet flushing mechanism. That was not a success, but Uncle Ben had also taught Peter that famous Edison quote:

“I have never failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work. Failures are people who don’t realize how close they are to success when they gave up.”

Peter is so close. All he needs is a smaller, consistent power source so he can unplug this thing. Photovoltaic casing was too heavy. Internal hydrogen cells gave a maximum three seconds of remote activity. Mr. Stark is the man to solve the conundrum. Even if he’s not willing to help innovate a battery, at very least he and Peter can conduct a scientific discourse about the plausible applications for the device.

And so, at fifty-two minutes after initial contact, Peter Parker and his gadget reported to the front stoop to wait for his ride.

At the ten minutes late mark, Peter stops bouncing his legs and stands. Rather than risk leaving his kit on the steps, he carries it with him while he paces. His whole future as a scientist is in this case. More specifically, it's in Mr. Stark’s hands. So, this meeting is no big deal. Of course, Peter can go on being Spiderman forever, but way before any of this superhero stuff happened, he’s had this dream.

A rat stalks across his path and Peter scurries back to his stoop. superhero thing aside, he’s never been a fan of the city’s wildlife. He hops up to the top step and glances at the door.

It’s seventeen minutes past the hour mark. Did he misunderstand the message?  
Or maybe something came up with Mr. Stark's business. Or an Ironman thing. An international military crisis would explain a delay. Mr. Stark wouldn’t stand him up for no reason.

Unless he changes his mind about the initial drawings. Peter has emailed drawings of every improvement. He even shared photographs and films of the prototype too precious to show Ned. For some reason, this upgrade caught Mr. Stark's interest... and lost it again.

Mr. Stark is a nice guy. He wouldn’t let Peter stand around all night waiting, would he?

No unread messages on his phone, other than the three selfies of Ned’s new hat.  
There’s a Spanish test in the morning, which Peter studied for, but also _durmiendo es muy importante_. He glances at the door again and sighs.

This isn’t a failure. It’s a setback. Actually, it’s a step forward. For six months, he got no response at all. At least this is a bite, even if the fish ultimately swims away for a while..

Maybe Peter should go inside, tap the spider-com and see if it’s two-way. There might even be a message on the suit. On the other hand, go inside, he might miss his ride. If he keeps sitting here, he might be eaten alive by dog-sized New York City rodents.

He scratches his head and yelps out loud when Happy arrives twenty-three minutes late. Peter leaps from the top stair and runs to the car. Once inside, he pulls the door closed and grins.

Happy merely says, “Traffic.”

“I figured as much,” Peter says. “Man, traffic around here can be nuts. Even at this hour. That’s why I don’t drive. Also, you know, too young. But I do have my permit. You want to see it? No, why would you want that? Anyway, mostly, I bike. Well, you know, unless I’m…”

Peter does the sound effects and mimes shooting web. He smiles. Happy glances through the rearview, but his expression doesn’t change.

How the heck did this guy get the name Happy? Did his mom just not know? Or did she see this glum little frowning baby and hope it would get better if she named him something hopeful. Maybe it’s just sarcasm. Probably that, courtesy of Mr. Stark. Not that Happy’s mean. He’s never mean. The SAT word is 'stoic.' Then again, this is probably, kind of, a thankless job, driving some goofy kid around at all hours of the …

“Oh, my gosh. Happy. Thank you so much, man.” Peter touches his shoulder. “Seriously, it’s so great to see you. This is probably pretty much the most incredible thing that ever happened to me.”

“Sit back.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Peter scoots back in his seat. “Have you seen Mr. Stark’s lab? I bet it’s off the chiz-ain. I mean, are there like a lot of —”

“Seat belt.”

“Right. Safety.” Peter buckles up. “There’s probably like a ton of protocol, right? Like goggles. Am I going to need to wear gloves? Surgical mask? I didn’t bring any of that. You think we need to maybe, like, stop at CVS?”

When Happy doesn’t respond, Peter nods to himself. Tony Stark knows what he’s doing. If there’s any kind of equipment or anything Peter needs, it’ll be there, in the right size and everything. He probably gives tours every day.

“Does he do this for everyone? Am I making a bigger deal out of this than it is?” Peter asks. “I mean, I don’t want to be all … you know, when there’s like forty kids lined up around the block.”

Why does it matter? If Tony Stark interviews a different teen inventor every night, this night would still be Peter’s. That’s all that matters. He clutches the kit in his lap and kisses the steel case.

But what if his invention actually sucks? If it does, Mr. Stark will say so and he’ll put Peter out on his butt. Maybe never talk science with him again. A bolt of nervous energy electrocutes Peter’s spine.

“It’s pretty rare for Tony to take an interest in anyone, so… I suppose you can be flattered if you want," Happy says. "Who ever knows why he does anything?”

That’s kind of encouraging, right?

Even if this device isn’t as great as Peter thinks it is, Mr. Stark sees something in him. Potential. Uncle Ben called it ‘the spark of greatness.’ Peter takes a deep breath, rolls down the window and lets the city wind blow away his worries.

This Apple doesn’t sleep, but some corners of the city quiet down at night. New York - with all her bright lights and seedy dark corners - wouldn’t believe where Peter Parker is heading right now. Part of him wants to text MJ or Ned and tell them their boy Pete is the luckiest (and happiest) kid in Queens.

Possibly on earth.


	2. Chapter 2

STARK

German for Strong. American for success, brilliance, and hotness.

Whoa, hot? Really?

“Do I detect a minty-fresh hint of a crush, Parker?”

That's MJ's voice in his head. If she were here to hear what he's thinking, Pete would bark back, "Bite me," but he wouldn't deny it. 

Okay, no. Let’s not go that far.

Obviously, Tony Stark is attractive. Anybody can see that. But it’s not like a crush-crush, where Peter wants his tongue down the guy’s throat, or anything like that. It’s just that ever since Ned came out, Peter’s checking himself for signs. You know, just in case.

He could at least be bi, maybe.

So far, all signs point to dreams about MJ and their Chemistry teacher, Mrs. Whitaker, but it’s good to stay abreast of these things.

See? A breast.  
Probably not gay.

But if, for example, Mr. Stark ever put a hand on Peter’s knee while they were talking, it wouldn’t be the gross or weird or anything. Peter might even be getting a little warm thinking about it.

Let’s just say, Ms. Potts is a lucky lady. That’s all.

Happy pulls to the side of the mansion and feeds a code into an intercom.

“What you got for me?” Mr. Stark’s voice calls and the temperature in Peter’s chest doubles.

“Special delivery,” Happy says.

“Goody. Send him down.”

The car door pops unlocked as the mansion wall slides open, wide enough for a Peter-sized guest to enter.

“Holy… Dude, that is awesome.” Peter looks back for Happy’s reaction. “Did you see that?”

Happy is already driving away leaving Peter to step forward into a dark corridor. Mr. Stark’s voice booms overhead like the word of God:

“Get in here, kid. You’re letting in a draft.”

Right now, the most important thing is to be cool. Keep it together. Peter has been in rich people’s houses before. Liz’s family was stupid wealthy. Heated pool, five cars rich, and that was no big deal.  
He’s been to Stark headquarters and yes, everything is amazing, but does he want to come across like a starstruck noob or a calm, collected cucumber who totally belongs in this environment?  
Exactly, so cool it.

However, Peter Parker has never been to Tony Stark’s private residence, entering by the secret egress to his private lair. Peter folds in half, lets out a silent scream. Then he shakes it off and continues to stride toward the light.

Of course, there is the possibility that Mr. Stark will see his invention and tell Peter to take this crap and hit the road. Literally, like throw it in the street and drive a steamroller over it. Why would he come all the way down here and waste this powerful man’s time with this kiddie idea? It’s not too late to turn around and chase Happy down.

There’s a light from a doorway up ahead. An unmistakable man’s silhouette appears - Mr. Stark dramatically backlit by the interior of his lab - and another flash of lightning strikes in Peter’s chest. He stops where he is with a temptation to kneel and wait for permission to approach.

“Move it, slowpoke.”

Or he should just pick up his feet and get into the house.

“Is there something interesting going on out there I should know about?”

“No, sir.”

“Then get in here.”

Mr. Stark turns and walks inside. Peter follows, glancing behind him as the wall closes with a soft metallic scrape.

“Um… this is… Sir, I… Should I say hi to Ms. Potts?

“She’s asleep.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I’ll take this.”

Mr. Stark sets the kit on a steel countertop, but makes no motion to open or inspect it. Peter stands stone-still, holding his breath. He doesn’t even risk turning his head to look around.

Before he can ask, Mr. Stark spreads his arms, setting him loose to investigate the insane amount of Pure Amazing in the room. Actually, it’s more like a warehouse where one wall is lined with race cars. All Peter knows about cars is that Flash would piss himself to be here right now.

Far more interesting is the robotic arm that seems to be tracking as he wanders slowly around the room. Most of the items are so advanced, he can’t even identify what he’s looking at.

Finally, Peter stops in front of a blue-white glowing orb.

“Can I —”

“Don’t touch anything. Don’t breathe on anything.”

Peter nods. In a moment of infinite mercy, Mr. Stark introduces Peter to his AI assistants and demonstrates how they respond to voice commands. It’s mind-blowing tech, but something’s missing.

“Do you not use a monitor?”

“Let him see it,” Mr. Stark replies and the whole room lights up iridescent blue.

Peter ducks and turns, but there’s nowhere to hide. He’s surrounded by luminescence. It might even be inside of him. The room is a living holographic haze.

“Where you want to go, kid?”

“Uh…”

“Top of the Burj Khalifa.”

Instantly, they’re transported to the pinnacle of a sky scraper so high Peter fears he’ll spill what’s left of Aunt May’s lunch ziti all over Mr. Stark’s marble floors. His mind knows he’s in the lab. He can even see the lab behind the super-imposed image, but his senses tell a different story.

“Center of the earth,” Mr Stark says.

Now, they’re immersed in molten lava. It’s not better. The imagery is too intense and although there’s no palpable heat, the room is spinning and Peter is starting to sweat.

Mr. Stark brings his hands together and the image shrinks to the size of a computer monitor.

“Whoa.” Peter stumbles back against a countertop and works on catching his breath.

Before he fully manages, though, something else captures his eye. It’s not exactly hidden and kind of amazing he didn’t see it sooner. Now that he’s noticed, he can’t look away.

There is a life-sized replica of himself, standing in a corner, naked except for a short denim skirt.

Peter has been to Madam Tussauds. He’s seen Beyonce and Justin Bieber in wax. This is not that.  
If he didn’t know better, he’d think some guy pulled a Face/Off thing and is over there acting like a freaky statue. Actually, Peter doesn’t know better, and the theory is just as likely as any other.

His host is no help. Mr. Stark silently watches Peter eye his three-dimensional reflection. If it’s another visual trick of his computer, it’s a damn good one.

Peter doesn’t blink, doesn’t inhale as he creeps closer. The other him doesn’t move, so that’s good. Sort of. His nose curls as he leans close enough to stare into his own unblinking eyes.

“Boo!”

Peter jumps. Mr. Stark chuckles as he walks over and squeezes doll Peter’s chin.

“Is that you or what?”

If it’s a dummy for designing Peter’s suit, that explains its existence, not it’s wardrobe. Not it’s eerily lifelike face and nips and

“Um….”

Mr. Stark points to his rig. “Printed a mannequin for your suits. Got used to having you around.”

Peter’s jaw is unhinged and he can’t even bring himself to close it. He scratches his neck. The thing even has the same moles on its chest.

His mind whirrs around the equation. Is it a compliment? Or a challenge of some kind? Seriously, why the skirt?

Peter squares his shoulder, straightens his spine and waits for instructions.

What he gets instead is a full account of why ‘this Peter’ doesn’t look like a plastic doll. That’s not what he is. He’s a miracle of modern tech.

According to Mr. Stark, the first dummy he printed gave him the “heebie-jeebies.” Over the last half year, upgrading his Peter has become a pet project that has survived four-hundred and nine iterations, employed sixty-one specialists and gets ‘a little juicier’ every time.

Peter doesn’t ask for details. Doesn’t even want them. But once Mr. Stark starts rolling down the features, he’s an avalanche of information.

The first thing he tweaked was the facial features. A machine alone can get them close, but not quite right. Painters, sculptors and facial reconstruction surgeons have been working with coders to write software that will revolutionize care for accident victims.

“Like that chick whose face was eaten by a chimp.”

Mr. Stark shivers at his own example.

The next step was generating a more authentic covering. This project included input from Dr. Banner (another of Peter’s not-crushes). The task was to pioneer a part-organic/part-synthetic polymer that combines silicone with human skin cultivated using Peter’s own DNA.

“They’re calling it Skilicone,” Mr. Stark says. “You ought to see the test grafts on some of these burn victims.”

Peter scratches his head.

At this point, Mr. Stark performs a feat of mind-reading and assures him that it’s all entirely legal because his guardian, Aunt May, signed a waiver the first time Peter entered his building.

“Had a sense about you.”

What, an Ironsense? That’s not even a thing.

And what waiver? Peter’s only fifteen, but if somebody’s going to be using his DNA, that seems like the kind of thing that should be discussed with him first. Truth is, Aunt May is a great woman, but chances are slim that she even read the entire document.

Peter’s face is hot. If he’s not beet-red right now, just wait for it.  
MJ would lambast this man right now. This is a classic case of a corporation railroading the rights of private citizens. What could be more personal than a person’s genetic make up? And even if Mr. Stark’s intentions are all altruistic, what if somebody else gets hold of it and does something worse or weirder?

Then again, what could possibly be weirder than what he’s looking at right now?

But what to do? What is he going to say? Even if Peter, as a minor, has a case - (infringement or something) - is he going to sue one of the richest men in America? Is he going to go to war with his mentor? Mr. Stark hasn’t called himself Peter’s mentor, but he’s the closest thing the kid has got.

Is Peter going to rob the amputees of the breakthroughs that might come from more research on the flexible bone-substitute in Mr. Stark’s doll? Would a real scientist even make that kind of demand just because he’s a little bit freaked out by the whole thing?

Or is this Peter’s opportunity to keep his trap shut and learn about the most fascinating medical science he’s ever heard? Mr. Stark revolutionizing everything in health and beauty and he’s made Peter part of it. Is that a reason to be pissed, or grateful? Humbled, even.

Peter Parker glances at his kit, embarrassed to bring such a lame offering into the presence of Stark greatness. He’s lucky to even be on Tony Stark’s radar, let alone in his laboratory, in human or doll form.

“So, yeah. Love this little guy. Think I understand fatherhood, now.” Mr. Stark leans on his Peter’s shoulder, kisses its cheek and adds, “I didn’t even tell you about the caboose.”

Caboose? As in hindparts? Peter glances at the skirt and quickly raises his eyes.

“Not that there’s an ounce of fat on your sweet little tush, is there? But I’ve got a compound consisting of adipose and colophony that’s going to storm breast reconstruction … You know, for cancer survivors.”

“Breasts?”

“Yeah, I thought about it, but why mess with perfection?” Mr. Stark pats and then runs a palm over his Peter’s abs.

Real Peter’s skin flushes as if he’d been touched.

“Feel this.” Mr. Stark lifts the skirt and slaps its ass.

Before Peter can snatch away, his hand is dragged over. That is certainly not how his ass feels, but it’s lifelike. Or at least it complies with Peter’s imagination of some ass, somewhere.

He reclaims his hand and clears his throat.

“Just needs a remote control.”

Peter coughs out a squeak of a laugh. “It’s pretty amazing, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to concentrate…”

“Of course, kid. Let’s put him away.” Mr Stark steps behind the doll with his hands on its shoulders. “Grab the ankles. You’re a lot heavier than you look.”

In the process of lifting the legs, Peter TOTALLY ACCIDENTALLY glimpses up the skirt and drops them.

“Hey!” Mr. Stark scowls.

“Why does it have a... you know?”

“Because I’m not terribly interested in your... you know.” Mr. Stark smiles. “You’re one of those kids who checks out Barbie’s snatch.”

“No, I—”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“It’s not Barbie. It’s--”

“God, no. Do you know whose labia you’re looking at? Those are sculpted from a cast of Nat Romanov.”

As in Black Widow?”

“I’d tell you how I got that, but it may not, technically, be legal.” His grin is permanent now. “I almost forgot the cool part. Well, I designed it. It’s all cool. But stick your finger in the mouth. Don’t worry, cleaner than a dog’s anus.”

Peter looks at his hand and at the exit. What is he going to do? Say no? It’s not like he isn’t curious.

Also intriguing is the warm moist tongue that is having an entirely undesirable effect on his nervous system.

“Want to guess how I did that?” Mr. Stark doesn’t give Peter time to think. “Same way as Mother Nature. Artificial circulatory system maintains body temperature at a toasty 100 degrees, so you really feel it.”

“Wow, that’s… “ Peter stutters.

His finger still in his mouth. That Peter’s mouth, who doesn’t seem at all bothered to have some guy touching his teeth.

“He’s also one hell of a fuck toy.”

Living Peter snatches away his hand like he’s been burned.

“What? You don’t jerk off?”

That can’t be a real question.

“It’s a little known trade secret,” Mr. Stark says. “Masturbation is a great friend of invention. Sex is even better, but there’s all the clean up. Even if you tell them to scram right after, it’s lost time and squandered focus. You know what I’m saying?”

Peter does not know what he’s saying. He got lost somewhere around masturbation. “You don’t—”

“Oh, I most definitely do. Sometimes I fuck him so hard I get dizzy.” Mr. Stark ruffles the other Peter’s hair. “And the best part. Well, not the best, but it’s good. U, play Reel 3.”

There’s a split second of silence. Then, his own voice rings through the overhead speakers: “Mr. Stark, would you please fuck my ass, sir.”

Peter’s mouth falls open.

“Right?” Mr. Stark grins. “God, I love that algorithm.”

Peter’s voice moans and whines. “Oh, sir. It’s so big.”

Mr. Stark chuckles and waves off the compliment like he hears it all the time.

“All right. Enough. You’re freaking the kid out.”

“No, sir. I’m just…”

Far beyond freaked out and inching toward the exit. Peter’s heart is trying to bang its way out of his chest. His freaking Spideysenses are on overdrive. It’s not a good feeling. It’s an excruciating sensation, like his cells are swollen and pounding against each other in an attempt to — what? What is his body even trying to do?

The sound effects stop.  
The internal weirdness keeps ramping up. The only thing worse than discombobulated Spideysenses is a frigging boner.

What’s red and hot and bothered all over?

“Here’s a thought,” Mr. Stark says, pointing at Peter’s slightly tented crotch. “Why don’t you hop in, give him a spin?”

“What?”

“Come on, I know you were thinking it, too.” Mr. Stark smirks. “Let’s see you fuck yourself.”


	3. Chapter 3

Peter waits for the punchline.

It should be a joke, but it’s not. That much is obvious from Mr. Stark’s blank expression, and the way he licks his lips as he presses dollPeter’s belly button, explaining how that diffuses lubricant in the vagina and rectum. 

Neato.

He lays dollPeter face down on a steel countertop and adjusts the height a bit lower. Just right for the real boy.

What’s Peter going to do? Say no? To Tony Stark?

His face and chest are on the verge of spontaneously combusting. His wiener is plumping up nicely, totally on board, while his brain has checked out. The tears are in place. It’s all Peter can do not to cry.

A clicking sound snaps him back to the room. Mr. Stark’s fingers fly over a paper-flat keyboard.Peter’s voice rings out again:

“Fuck me, Peter. Give it to me. Harder. Oh shit, Peter. Yes. Yes. Like that.”

Peter hasn’t even touched the thing and it’s begging like this. Completely ridiculous. And stupid hot. Like, eyes-tearing, slit-leaking, oh-my-god-get-me-out-of-here hot. 

Mr. Stark peels up the doll’s skirt and reveals a tattoo on the right butt cheek. 

 

_-Whore-_

 

“I took liberties,” he says. 

For some reason, Peter feels the need to point out that he’d never get a tattoo. Most especially not that one.

“Never say never, kid. Go ahead, slide right in there.”

Mr. Stark slaps Real-Peter’s ass and he jumps. His fingers tremble on his fly. 

“Need a hand?”

“No.”

Peter needs to rally his nerves. It’s not a difficult task, per se. It’s just… with Mr. Stark standing at his elbow, his boner is flagging. 

Jesus. No wonder. Peter can’t even pee at a urinal. This is a zillion times more public and private. He could still laugh it off and leave. 

Yeah, right. It wasn’t an invitation.

Peter pulls himself out and strokes, zeroing in on that word inscribed on his ass. Not ‘his’ ass. Actually, from this perspective, he can pretend it’s anybody other than himself. Well, not MJ, because her skin and hair are completely different. Not Ned either, but why would he imagine that? 

Also, do Aunt May and Mrs. Whitney, the guidance counselor insistence on condom usage apply to sex with artificial people?

Peter’s back pocket buzzes. At the same time, it blasts Queen: “You’re My Best Friend.”

A text from Ned, as if that could save him. He doesn’t even answer it. Probably another hat pic. 

Ned would not be having these problems. He’d be fired up.

Peter needs to think of this pink, puckered hole as a pop quiz. If he does this one thing right, it’ll be over. Mr. Stark will be impressed or proud, or at least he’ll quit looking like Peter’s on the breakfast menu at McDonalds. Of all the scrapes and unpredictable predicaments, this will forever be the oddest, wrongest, grossest thing he’s ever done in front of someone else. On the other hand, if Peter lets him down, he might lose his mentor. 

A deep breath, a rallying of the troops and Peter pushes, shoves, forces his way into the warmest, tightest, most awesome thing he’s ever felt in his life. As his tip slips past the first resistant ring, his eyes roll back in his head. Jaw falls open. He has to stop moving to keep it from coming.

“Oh God.” Peter pants. “That’s tight.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Wow. Am I really…”

Even a card-carrying virgin knows this one hell of a snug fit. And why’d he go for the backdoor first? Hm. But does sex with himself count as gay?

Mr. Stark squeezes dollPeter’s ass cheek and slaps it. The whole thing jiggles around him and poor Peter squeaks. The tears are back, and he’s shaking all over. Every nerve ending in his body fires. Or at least the ones that matter. He grips the base of his shaft and clutches the bunched up skirt in his other hand. The closest he’s ever been to real sex is the parting gift/handjob he got from from Liz.

That was amazing. 

This?

What is this even? 

Where does this fit in the grand scheme of getting laid?

Well, whatever it is, it’s about to be over. 

Peter’s balls clench - ready, aim, but before he can fire, Mr. Stark pushes him aside. He rearranges the doll on its back in the middle of the floor with its knees at the ears and hands holding the legs in place. 

It is the foulest thing Peter has ever seen in real life. His dick twitches.

Mr. Stark unzips and tugs his pants down around his ass. He crawls onto the doll in front of Peter. The overhead sound track immediately switches to wet, gagging sounds.

“How…”

“Sensors on the tongue,” Mr. Stark says, groans and launches a full-on attack. “Take that Peter, you little slut. You know you want it. Aw, yeah, you’re so dirty. You mouthy little bitch.”

Peter flinches at the language. His dick drips.

No amount of decency could help him ignore Mr. Stark’s ass blurring as he brutally fucks the doll’s face. It’s actually impressive how fast he’s moving, and on the crest of his right bun, under the thick, dark fur, there’s a tattoo in Germanic cursive. Peter leans down closer to make out what it says:

 

_\- Baby -_

 

“Come on, kid. Whoever comes last works for IBM.”

Peter snaps out of it, kneels and slides into the vagina. Not as tight, but God, the sensations.

“It’s moving,” Peter mumbles as he glides all the way in. “Why is it moving?”

“He does his Kegels,” Mr. Stark says. “I just said sensors, Peter. Keep up.” 

How does any one ever stop having sex? Even to brush their teeth, or eat.

Peter tries to match Mr. Stark’s breakneck rhythm. He can only keep it up for a few seconds before he’s about to burst. Instead, he pauses to revel.

This is the Holy Grail: Black Widow’s vagina.

He can’t even bring himself to think the word, ‘pussy.’ It’s going to be hard enough to look her in the eye again. Or himself for that matter.

For a moment longer, there’s a hairy, gyrating man’s ass in Peter’s face. Then Mr. Stark grunts and rolls aside, leaving Peter face to face with himself. 

It’s not an experience most people will ever have. Freaky twins, maybe. 

The idea of the Truong twins writhing together, rubbing each other’s buds - or however girls do it - puts him right back at the brink.

Peter wills his hips to stop moving. 

“What are you waiting for?” Mr. Stark growls.

Peter stares into his own eyes. Doesn’t often see them, and never this clearly. They’re so dark. Almost black, like deep wells he could fall into and drown. 

Okay, so that’s bad poetry. Even he knows that. Maybe because MJ has shot down that kind of thing a thousand times, but it’s true. His eyes are so deep. And the doll’s hair iss longer than in real-life and wavy. It got messed up in the midst of Mr. Stark’s blitz. Peter smooths it down. 

The eyes are expressive and eager and these aren’t even the real things. His face is blank, but there’s an almost-smile on his thin, pink lips. He would kiss them if there wasn’t also the risk of sipping Mr. Stark’s … you know.

Peter never thinks much about his looks. Tries not to focus on it. He’s what most people call basic. But also kind of beautiful. At least dollPeter is. Not devastatingly handsome like Mr. Stark orgorgeous like Thor, but special, in a way.

There’s no describing the way it feels. The birth of a star. Peter cries a little as he releases into his own vagina. Okay, Black Widow’s vagina. His chest is pressed against his own belly as he shudders and whimpers.

“Yeah, Peter,” his own voice whispers. “Come for me.”

By the time he buries his face on his own shoulder, Mr. Stark is already standing, fixing his pants, mumbling how hot that was.

Peter’s too busy levitating.

He comes back down, when Mr. Stark says, “All right. Come on. Don’t want to keep Happy waiting.”

Peter drags to his feet and adjusts his clothes. His instinct is to reach out and help himself up. But dollPeter lays there with baby juice oozing out of its vagina and lax mouth. 

Mr. Stark is facing away. “It’s late, kid. Go home.” 

It is late. No, it’s early. 

Tomorrow o’clock, as Aunt May calls it. 

Aunt May. Jesus. What if she’s awake? What is he going to tell her?

In the car, Peter stares out of the window, blinking at the harsh lights and the sleazy alleyways. The clueless tourists and isolated trees.

“Kid?”

“Huh?” 

“I said, didn’t you have a box or something?”

“Oh, yeah, I …” 

Peter shrugs and runs a hand over his head. Somehow, it’s just not that urgent anymore. 

They arrive at his building and Happy says, “Night, Peter.”

“Yeah. Okay.” 

Peter stares up at the front door to his building. It costs a few deep breaths before he’s brave enough to enter. 


End file.
